


The Note

by InvaderEx7



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Heavy Angst, John is Missing, M/M, Pining Sherlock, References to Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 01:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvaderEx7/pseuds/InvaderEx7
Summary: Outside, Sherlock stares in silent disbelief, frozen to the spot. Inside, his rage rivals a hurricane's; the world should pale at his fury, quake at his wrath, weep at his destruction. Processing, Sherlock stares in silent disbelief. After what may have been a few minutes, or perhaps an hour, time nearly resumes, and he drags his pale feet over to his blogger's chair. His heart is so, so heavy. How can a heart feel heavy and hollow all at once? 'Twould be better to rip the entire organ out and be done with it, rather than this tortuous shattering. He falls to his knees, blue dressing gown a pool at his sides, dark curls an askew crown, jagged points at all angles. His hands tear through it, moving through the locks and pulling of their own accord. He does not register the prickling pains along his scalp, far too gentle to be noticed when the whole of his mind is devoted, enslaved, to noticing the pains in his chest."xoxo Jim Moriarty"





	The Note

The realization comes suddenly. Stark white paper with shaky grey letters in formations such as "Reichenbach", "missed you", "he's depressed", "been drinking", "broken", "so alone", "he's lost without you", "your death", "my death", "courtesy of my sniper", "xoxo Jim Moriarty" all writ upon the paper he holds in fingers trembling. He has returned home from Serbia this day to find a note from Moriarty. A note about John.  
Unbeknownst to him, the paper falls. 

Outside, Sherlock stares in silent disbelief, frozen to the spot. Inside, his rage rivals a hurricane's; the world should pale at his fury, quake at his wrath, weep at his destruction. Processing, Sherlock stares in silent disbelief. After what may have been a few minutes, or perhaps an hour, time nearly resumes, and he drags his pale feet over to his blogger's chair. His heart is so, so heavy. How can a heart feel heavy and hollow all at once? 'Twould be better to rip the entire organ out and be done with it, rather than this tortuous shattering. He falls to his knees, blue dressing gown a pool at his sides, dark curls an askew crown, jagged points at all angles. His hands tear through it, moving through the locks and pulling of their own accord. He does not register the prickling pains along his scalp, far too gentle to be noticed when the whole of his mind is devoted, enslaved, to noticing the pains in his chest. 

He has been unraveling the network, working to get to the center, to be sure that the Spider was gone. He has been in different countries, speaking in different languages, beating and killing, being beaten. He has been protecting his friends, his love, for two years. And now, now that he has returned, John, his John, has been killed. 

John.  


John Watson.  


Dr. John Watson.  


Captain John H. Watson.  


John . . . is dead.  


The hurricane of fury is swept aside for one of extreme sorrow. Pain, acute and cutting, sears through his heart. His long fingers clutch, white-knuckled, frantic, scrabbling for something and grasping nothing. The fabric of the chair blurs before him, twisting hues of red and darkness.  


"John . . . " His whisper is a fragile, broken thing, crippled wings lost in the air among the dust motes of 221B.  


"John-!" Louder this time, more than a whisper, but less than a scream. It is not enough.  


"JOOOOOOHHHHNNNNNNNN!" There we go. The scream shreds through his throat, raw, bleeding his feelings, dripping onto the floor. He sounds again, again, again. Screams again, again, again. He cannot even hear them. He cannot truly feel them. They are in the background of his sensation, a white-noise lullaby to his agony. John. Again. Again. Again. JOHN.  


Everything is spinning, tilting as though the Earth's axis has shifted. John would know more about that. John knew about the solar system. Knew is . . . past-tense. John is past-tense.  


His throat burns, ragged, as his wrecked body convulses. Vomit, sour, bitter with bile, is ejected and drips down his chin with spittle and a hint of blood. Has he bit his lip? His tongue? It matters not. There is only the true pain, the slicing, throbbing, lacerations upon his heart and being. His mind is too full, too empty. He longs to be numb, but he is conscious despite it all. He does not deserve to be conscious when . . .  


He convulses again. There is nothing left. No more bile, no more conductor of light, no more meaning to it all. The world is empty.  
Sherlock awakes sometime later, and manages to drag his limp body to the bedroom he had never dared enter. He had been afraid to before, afraid to change what they had that worked so well, what made them two halves of one soul. Rather poetic, yes, waxing on spiritual, yes. But John Watson had an interesting effect on the brain; namely, that once there, Sherlock found it impossible to get him off of it. He was not afraid to enter now. He was on the bed burying his face in the pillow, wet spots of tears and snot spreading and staining the material. The smell of John was lingering in the fabric, and he was basking in it. Here, in the cotton and fleece, John's scent hung about and comforted. Here, John's presence was not gone, merely subtler. He could be back any moment, return to his sheets and anew the smell with musky cologne and natural, woodsy odor. John could come in, smile at Sherlock that special way that made his eyes crinkle and alight the room with warmth and safety. He could come in kiss him, softly, tender, as though the consulting detective mattered and had never had a reason to leave. 

It may have been two minutes, it may have been two weeks. He does not know. Light streams through the window, rays illuminating the flat and the broken within. He is in John's bed, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and his blogger's clothing. If asked, he could not say what day it was, when he last ate, when he last showered, or when he last cared. It comes as a surprise when the tears splash upon his trembling hands; not a surprise because he is crying, mind you, but because it is the first time he has felt anything other than his heart's wrenching. He is still cocooned when Mycroft, Lestrade, and a handful of faceless people in medical garb enter. The blankets about his face are removed; he has not the strength to pull them back. The people are trying to talk to him. He does not hear them. Mrs. Hudson is at the door, face pale, wrinkled, tear-stained as she surveys the wreckage that is the flat and the man within. Sherlock is brought to a stand, eyes red-rimmed, bloodshot, and unseeing as he is guided to the door. There is no fight in him.  


He is in the living room, the Chair before him once more. He freezes, and the people do too, though he pays it no mind. John's chair. Empty. Forever empty as he is forever gone. The scream shreds through his throat, raw, bleeding his feelings, dripping onto the floor. He sounds again, again, again.  


Screams again, again, again.

**Author's Note:**

> Angst is normally not my thing, not angst like this. This show is still killing me in the most tortuous, delectable way. Please comment and such if you like it!


End file.
